


another night of nothing

by mentallyillbitchfrom2018 (orphan_account)



Series: I’m keeping these up but jESUS christ [4]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: 3AM shit, ? - Freeform, Ah wow it’s, Drabbles, EXPLICIT SELF HARM, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self Loathing, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Thinking horrible things, Touch-Starved, deep, for the kids!, for the sake of your desire to die, lack of feeling, mentions of abuse, mentions of dead children, needed to clarify that I can’t write that shit lmao, now with!, sad man sad man, severely, someone hug him, touching himself in a NONSEXUAL way, very briefly, wow he’s a sad lonely man huh, yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mentallyillbitchfrom2018
Summary: was originally going to name this ‘Scott jacks off but he’s said about it’ but then I couldn’t be bothered to write any actual jacking off so. Here’s this! PLEASE read the tags. There’s a quite detailed description of cutting soooo.... be safe. I don’t want y’all reading this thinking you’re gonna be ok then relapsing or something
Series: I’m keeping these up but jESUS christ [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130522
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	another night of nothing

It was often nighttime when he found himself touching parts of his body, more out of boredom than any other pointless emotion it should logically be driven by. A brush over his collarbone turned into hands slipping under his shirt, fingers ghosting over bones and paper thin covering, sighing and avoiding the gaze of no one in particular. The one time throughout his entire existence, with its many mishaps and disasters and unfortunate events, that he hopes ghosts aren’t real and they can’t see him. He knows they are. He really just hopes none are there.

Truth be told, Scott was extremely lonely. He was so lonely. Surrounded by people constantly, but he felt so alone that he might as well be the last person on Earth. All interactions were meaningless. A means to an end, and he didn’t talk to anyone unless he wanted something out of them or vice versa. It was usually the latter. He never really wanted much out of anybody. There was the futile wish of love, maybe a stable relationship, but that flame died out years ago, along with the last slivers of his sanity when he was ‘saved’ from his fourth abuser by his sister. She called her an abuser. Scott never saw her like that. She was... nice. Pushy, sure, but she never  _ hit him _ like the others. But apparently, someone didn’t have to hit you to be abusive.

In that sense, he figured, he’d been abusing himself for decades. He was far beyond healing now.

Had there ever been any possibility?

He didn’t think so.

He held his shaking hands out in front of him, analysing then harshly. Cracked skin stared back at him, patterns almost carved into the lack of nutrition. Cigarette burns marred his pale flesh, which was funny because he didn’t even smoke, he just sometimes got bored of cutting. And one hummocky section led his eyes to a ragged ridge of scar-pink tissue, indented in his left wrist bone. A reminder of one of the worst breakdowns he’d had in his entire life. Trying to mutilate his own body in an attempt to stop that soul crunching pain from deep inside his abdomen from coming. The shame. It was the shame. He knew it was shame, shame for a lot of things but at that time it was the shame of his hands having touched another man. 

It didn’t feel right to let these, these  _things_ come in contact with anything that didn’t belong to him.

But, then again, he supposed they shouldn’t touch him either. Scott didn’t belong to himself- oh no, he’d lost that right  _ long  _ ago, possession is nine tenths of the law and Scott refuses to report crime. He belonged to the ground. The alleys, the deserted public bathrooms at a mall, the back of a  _ fucking  _ church, the motel off that one street he can’t quite remember, the mattress in that abandoned warehouse. He really just belonged to anyone willing to bare the disgrace of owning such a pitiful creature.

Two fingers stroked up and down his lower left arm, slowed by the speed-bump-like texture of his skin. It was for comfort more than anything, a reassurance that, hey, he’s still here, still alive, and still suffering. But all it did was left him with compulsion. An unwavering, incessant, need to break skin. To feel.

No, you’re already on more painkillers than you should be. You have drug testing tomorrow and you’d need a shitton to calm down the stinging.  _ You know they don’t count pain medication on the test.  _ You’re sure they do.  _ No test to worry about if you don’t have to take any meds.  _ You... can’t. You can’t afford time off work, not now, not with the investigations.  _ Lucky bastards. They got out of life the easy way. Now if only you could find the guy who did it before the police-  _ stop that. Don’t say that. They were kids. You know better than to say things like that bout other people’s suffering. You can’t image the pain their parents are going through _._ _That’s why it would be better being you, right? No suffering_ _if no one fucking cares._ That’s... a fair point. Wait. It’s not- no, it’s not. You need to stop thinking about that.

But alas, there was already a razor in his hand, dragging towards his marked thigh. There were few on there, he’d only started with it recently because he’d run out of space on his arms. Or more, he didn’t think he could risk any more on his arms.

The first contact was bliss. Blossoming pain, slow and steady, eliciting fires in his nerves, waking him. The second was less rewarding. The third, even less so. There were 15 attempts, in all. 15 attempts to give him the same feeling as the first. None of them worked. And again, he sank into the feeling of emptiness. The coldness of his bedroom wall against his back was nonexistent as he crumbled to the void of nothingness. The afterglow didn’t last long. A few seconds at most, hysteria from finding pain funny. Then it was guilt. But he didn’t feel the guilt, he hadn’t, not for a long time.

Of course, his nerves still reacted as if it were there. Warm, yet blizzard cool, tears ran down his cheeks, meeting together at his chin and staining his shirt darker. But he felt nothing from it. A frustrating,  _ angry  _ nothing. That’s when the tears started to mean something. He was never more glad that he didn’t have any mirrors in his room. He’d hate to see his face as it was, muscles straining, contorting his features in a stupid fucking attempt to convey whatever in the god forsaken earth he was feeling right now.

He threw his head back, maybe a little too hard, and it hit the plaster wall behind him. He cursed, but didn’t do anything about it. Just sat there. For a while.

The cracking pains in the back of his skull migrated to the front, eyes feeling as if they’d burst out of his face. His shirt, stained with shameful tears, stuck awkwardly to his collarbones. The razor in his right hand pricked at the fragile skin of his palm. His thighs stung.

These were the only things he allowed himself. The only things he  _deserved_.  He could have the pain, he could have the hurt, but under no circumstances was he to be allowed the comfort that should come after. Unless it came from himself. But he did a pretty shit job of it. He wanted so  _ badly  _ to be held by someone. Anyone. To have someone else’s hands ghosting over him, cupping his cheeks, wiping away tears. But it was always his own hands. His own mindless whispers.

_ ‘ Tomorrow.’ _

_ ‘One more day.’ _

_ ‘Next time.’ _

Keeping himself on that string. Holding death out on a rod in front of his face, only to keep pulling it back another 24 hours.

It’s not like death would help. Recently, it had occurred to him that he did not wish to die.

He only wanted suffering. Nothing would  ever  be enough. Couldn’t douse the fire of hatred that was ever burning in his stomach, embers catching in his throat.

There were... some things he’d though would be enough. Just. But they were really fucked. And he wasn’t going to ask anyone. Shit, could you imagine?

_ ‘ Hey man, I really want to fucking die, mind doing this for me?’ _

Yeah, right.

He laughed to himself. Well. Less a laugh, more a hearty exhale out of his nose. Entertained nonetheless, he replaced the razor where it was before, lying next to his phone on his nightstand.

And then, he let the warmth of his covers encompass him.

After all, this was just a regular night.

**Author's Note:**

> hahah ahahah  
> Everything feels the same in quarantine it’s so fucking weird  
> anyway i might actually do some multi chapter shit soon hee hee


End file.
